Tag: books

Haruki Murakami explains how to become a better writer:

“Hello, Mr Murakami. I’ve always enjoyed reading your books. Currently I’m a graduate student, so I’ve got to deal with reports, presentation planning, and emails and letters to professors, and anyway I have to write a lot of compositions. But the fact is, I’m really not good at writing composition. But be that as it may, if I can’t write I can’t graduate and I’m in a tough position, so since it can’t be helped I do my writing while struggling and groaning. Is there nothing I can do to make writing easier? If you have any advice, like what you’d find in a composition primer, I would be most grateful for it.”

Considering that getting into graduate school in the first place is no mean feat, we’re going to give Ms Sakurai the benefit of the doubt and assume she has a decent head on her shoulders, problems with the pen notwithstanding. Also, having shown the wherewithal to recognize her own academic shortcomings, plus the initiative in reaching out to someone who appears to be a more-than-qualified mentor, we’d also say she’s got the commitment and work ethic necessary to overcome her difficulties.

So how did the famous author respond?

“The act of writing is the same as sweet-talking a woman, in that you can get better, to an extent, with practice. Fundamentally, though, your abilities are determined by the talents you’ve been born with. Well, anyway, do your best.”

Haruki Murakami’s advice, Japan Today, 23 Jan 2015

A lot of people ask a lot of writers about how to become a better writer, seeking to learn the secret about making writing less painful, completing a book, writing something that a lot of people want to read, or writing a bestseller. And while Murakami’s answer is effectively the only practical one, I would provide a little more detail on the basis of my experience.

• Practice and experience makes writing less painful. Eventually, it becomes almost automatic. When a writer is in the groove, he is barely aware of his own thought processes at all. John C. Wright describes the inspiration that substitutes for them as “the muse”, one might not unreasonably call the experience “dancing with the muse”. This is something I have very rarely experienced and never with fiction, but I have occasionally observed it in writers I’ve edited.
• Completing a book requires nothing more than focus and determination. I wrote A THRONE OF BONES in one year. It took nearly seven years to complete A SEA OF SKULLS, mostly because I had other priorities interrupting my focus. It won’t take that long to complete the trilogy.
• Writing something that people want to read requires getting out of your own head and actually paying attention to what other people think and do. It requires empathy, and if one is inclined toward solipsism, putting a firm restraint on the tendency. I can’t tell you how many authors have told me “I think a lot of people would like to read a book about [insert obviously stupid idea that is of interest to virtually no one besides the author]!” And it’s almost impossible to get a good author to write what will actually sell instead of whatever he feels like writing. I do this much more with my non-fiction than my fiction; on average, non-fiction sells better anyhow.
• Get lucky or take the ticket. Be aware that most “bestsellers” are manufactured and fake; do you really believe Hillary Clinton and Katie Price are two of the most successful post-2000 authors in the world? If so, Ron Desantis has a mountain of his #1 New York Times, Publisher’s Weekly, Wall Street Journal, and Amazon bestselling book, THE COURAGE TO BE FREE, for you to take off his hands. Published just seven months ago, the current sales rank of the paperback is #1,073,496 on Amazon.

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I started writing a story for the forthcoming cyberpunk issue of Stupefying Stories, but it turned out to be unneeded, so I initially abandoned it. Then I recalled that we’re going to release the print edition of The Altar of Hate, my collection of non-Selenoth, non-Quantum Mortis short stories, as soon as we get the second Chuck Dixon’s Conan out the door.

So, here’s a preview of “Shinjuku Satan”:

They call me doctor. Partly because I have a doctorate in neuropsychology from Nanyang Technopolitan, but mostly because doctor is what you call the man in the white coat when you, or your kid, or your cat, isn’t feeling well. Most of the time, the doctor can fix what’s wrong with you, the kid, or the cat. And when he can’t, then the doctor is the guy who gets called in to put them down.
I have an office on the 40th floor of the Tanjong Pagar Center, but it’s not your normal doctor’s office. It’s just one room, with a desk, three chairs, a coffee table, and a couch that looks exactly like what it is, a deluxe set ordered from the Professional Office section of the Japandi-Ikea site.
The 96-inch flat-screen is above the couch and across from my desk, which permits me to maintain the illusion that I’m on top of things. Of course, I’m not, because no one who has to sleep more than fifteen minutes a day can possibly keep up with global events without round-the-clock digital assistance.
The gentle sigh of a wind chime announces something new has happened somewhere, something algorithmically deemed worthy of my attention.
“What’cha got, Suzie?” I address the empty room and the screen wakes up. A platinum blonde 80’s-era cybergirl appears, with Barbie-pink lips, a wicked smile, and eyes like silver mirrors. Suzie Shades. She’s my main girl, my colleague, my librarian, and my confessor all rolled into one.
Some might say she’s not real, but she’s as real as anything else is to me. And if her intelligence is artificial, she’s got considerably more of it than your average man on the street.
“A request for a meeting from the Archbishop of Chengdu.”
“Archbishop?”
“In this specific case, the title refers to a priest in service to The Most Holy and Apostolic Catholic Church with Chinese Characteristics. Address him as Eminence.”
“Put him through.”
She coughs, delicately. It’s her way of informing me that I’m being obtuse. “He’s here, in the protein.”
“Very cute. Where?”
“The elevator. Just hitting the thirteenth floor now.”
I stand up and glance around the office space to make sure there is nothing exposed that might offend an Archbishop with Chinese Characteristics, whatever that might be. Then Suzie vanishes from the screen and is replaced by a live image of the corridor outside my office, in which stands nothing but a single potted plant until a man who definitely has Chinese characteristics, but is wearing a well-cut black suit with a red collar in the place of a necktie, strides past it.
“The Archbishop Zhang Wenlan,” Suzie intones a moment before the door opens itself before my unscheduled visitor.
I rise to my feet. I’m not sure what the protocol for greeting an archbishop of any sort might be, much less one with Chinese Characteristics but civility is my compass where potential clients are concerned.
“Anata no sonzai wa kōeidesu, Archbishop.” I bow as deeply as I can without cracking my forehead on the desk. “Dono yo ni o yakunitate reba yoideshou ka?”
“Doctor Sagamihara,” he says, with a barely perceptible inclination of his head. Status superior, but he’s willing to speak on neutral ground. So we’ve got that established. English it is. Good to know where I stand vis-a-vis His Eminence.
His Eminence is younger than I would have imagined, or perhaps just better enhanced. My best guess is sixty going on forty. He looks standard, but then, so do I. And I am, as they say, a very technical boy.
“We are informed that you are the world’s foremost digital neuropsychologist, specializing in the neurotherapeutic treatment, and if necessary, euthanasia, of disordered machine intelligences. Would you say that is a fair characterization?”
“Fair enough. It might be more succinct to call me a Rogue AI Hunter, but then I’d have to cut my rates in half, and in half again.”
“And your rates are?”
“Ten thousand gonghui per day, plus expenses.”
“We prefer to pay a flat fee. Five hundred thousand gonghui on acceptance and five million upon completion of the project to our satisfaction. Plus approved expenses, said approval not to be unreasonably withheld. Are those terms acceptable?”
I do a little math in my head. That’s fifty days at a full rate up front. It tells me that either The Most Holy and Apostolic Catholic Church with Chinese Characteristics doesn’t have an abacus or this job is going to be a definite bitch-and-a-half. Regardless, the offer is much too good to refuse.
“The terms are acceptable,” I graciously allow. “So spill, comrade padre. What’s the job? And don’t leave out all the little devils in the details.”
“It’s not a question of devils,” the archbishop says with a smile that never comes close to reaching his black eyes. “But rather gods, I’m afraid.”

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